


5 Times Patrick Sharp Was A Bully (+1 Time He Was EVEN MORE Of A Bully)

by smoulderandbraids



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoulderandbraids/pseuds/smoulderandbraids
Summary: Sharpy gives him a look, like he thinks Duncan’s being difficult. Which is so unfair because Duncan’s only difficult about hockey and Sharpy is like, an inherently difficult person.





	5 Times Patrick Sharp Was A Bully (+1 Time He Was EVEN MORE Of A Bully)

_January, 2009_

  
  
_1._

“Seabs looks nice today”, Sharpy says, with a nod of his head to where Brent is stowing his carry-on in the overhead bin of the plane, five or so rows ahead of them.

Duncan stares at Sharpy blankly, then looks over to eyeball Brent, who seems cheerfully oblivious, chatting to Johnny and taking off his jacket before sitting down for the flight.

Sharpy said it quietly, thank goodness, but almost too casually. Enough to set Duncan on edge. Sharpy’s best at being considerate when it benefits _him_ first and foremost. Duncan’s not a typical target for Sharpy’s pranks, but he didn’t achieve that status by being foolhardy. Every decent hockey player he’s ever met is an opportunist at heart, and Sharpy is no different.

“What, is Abby not calling you back again?” Duncan asks, equally quiet, just enough concern in his voice so Sharpy knows it’s mostly a joke.

“No,” Sharpy says, rolling his eyes. “Abby and I are in a healthy, mature relationship. Our communication is impeccable.” He bumps Duncan with his shoulder. “I meant I thought _you_ might have noticed that Seabs looks nice today.”

Duncan, much to his own bewilderment, kind of thinks Brent looks nice most days. It’s something about his hair and his eyes and his absurd tallness and how he never freaking shuts up when they’re getting ready for games, even though he knows Duncan likes to try and zone out and do his own thing before playing. And sometimes on the ice he takes Duncan’s passes so beautifully, and Duncan thinks he feels something a lot like love for a few moments. Or thinks he would, if he wasn’t too stubborn to admit it, even to himself.

Anyways.

He can see the back of Brent’s head and the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders from where he’s sitting currently. It’s enough.

“He looks better than you.” Duncan mutters to Sharpy, who laughs like that isn’t a direct hit to his massive, self-inflated ego.

Duncan is saved from hearing whatever unfortunate comeback Sharpy had in store by the chimes directing their attention to the pre-takeoff safety presentation. They’ve both seen it a million times, but Duncan’s seen enough disaster movies to convince him that paying attention is still probably a good idea.

Sharpy clearly hasn’t seen enough disaster movies, judging by the doodle on a napkin he shoves onto Duncan’s side of the armrest.

 

Duncan politely waits for the safety demonstration to conclude, and puts on his expensive, top of the line, worth every damn penny noise-cancelling headphones. If he wants to get through the next 2 hours on this airplane without throttling Sharpy, it’s best not to react.

  


 

_2_.

Brent is eating a post-practice lunch at the hotel with a bunch of the guys when he notices Sharpy giving him a look. Brent knows that look. He has a kid brother. He knows trouble when he sees it.

“You do something different with your hair, Biscuit?” Sharpy says, with a nonchalance that’s too practiced to be trustworthy.

“Nope,” Brent says, and focuses on his chicken and pasta. “No tips to share with you, sorry buddy.”

“Oh,” Sharpy says, and Brent waits for the other shoe to drop. “Duncan told me you looked nice today, so I was trying to figure out why.”

Brent takes a moment to thank the hockey gods that Sharpy waited until Crow and Soupy went up to get seconds before starting...whatever this is. If he doesn’t say anything, maybe Sharpy will go away. Or at least drop whatever misplaced idea he’s got in his head this week.

“Have you seen Duncan?” Sharpy asks, and Brent assumes he means after they got back to the hotel after practice.

“I haven’t, no,” Brent says, still suspicious.“He’s probably napping or something.”

Duncan doesn’t have a roommate this trip and is definitely taking advantage of the solitude by  napping to his heart’s content. He seemed happy enough at practice, running drills and gently but illegally elbowing Brent in board battles. And Brent knows Duncan doesn’t feel like he sleeps very well on planes, as a general rule.

“Someone should probably go make sure he doesn’t miss lunch.” Sharpy says, pointedly.

Lunch is a buffet style, two hour thing, so it’s unlikely Duncan would miss it entirely. That said, Duncan’s been late or just barely on time to most things Brent’s tried to take him to the last 4 years, so it’s possible some concern is warranted. Brent doesn’t quite know how he ended up being Duncan’s unofficial keeper, in addition to his d-partner, but it’s not like he really minds.

Still, it’s rude of Sharpy to assume. Like _that’s_ any surprise.

“You’re done eating, you could be a pal and go do that.” Brent says, like it’s a brilliant idea that just occurred to him.

“Mmm, I don’t know about that,” Sharpy says, “He probably wouldn’t mind if you went and woke him up. I might get murdered, but you’d probably make it out with just a bruise or two.” There’s possibly some...innuendo? in his tone, but Brent can’t be sure.

“I’m eating,” Brent says, gesturing to the last bites of chicken and pasta on his plate.

“You’re practically done,” Sharpy says, dismissively. “Besides, you looked a little slow out there on the ice this morning. You should probably watch the carbs.”

Brent shoves the last bites of his lunch into his mouth and gets up, making sure to bump Sharpy with his shoulder as he moves around the table.

“Bus leaves at four-thirty, don’t be late!” Sharpy calls after him, like an asshole. As if Brent and Duncan are going to get distracted in a hotel room, during prime napping time, and forget about the game tonight.

Brent thinks, briefly, about what he and Duncan could do in a roommate-less hotel room, during prime napping time, to end up distracted. He shakes his head, physically, to clear the thought, and punches the button for the elevator. Make sure Duncan doesn't miss lunch, that’s the important thing. God knows he can be grumpy enough, even when he isn’t hungry.

  
  


_3_.

Brent scores that night, in the third, and on a power play at that. He gets his share of hugs and fist bumps, and it turns out to be the game winner.

But that doesn’t explain the long, lingering hug he gets from Sharpy in the locker room after the game, when it’s just half the guys left. Brent likes his teammates as much as the next guy, likes that they’re a little bit of a family. There’s nothing wrong with some physical affection, some goal-scoring appreciation, but this feels kind of weird.

It gets weirder when Brent pats Sharpy on the back and starts to pull away, but Sharpy just holds on tighter.  

“Um,” Brent says, taking a breath to say something, like is Sharpy okay? Do his arms still work?

“Shut it, Seabrook,” Sharpy says, sotto voce and kind of menacing. “Patience is a virtue.”

Brent figures hugs are nice, and this isn’t worth getting Sharpy cranky over. He doesn’t want a retaliatory hotel wake-up call at 3am because he deigned to refuse an overlong hug. Whatever, Sharpy has to stop sometime soon. They have a plane to catch and all.

Sharpy does let go a few seconds later, patting Brent companionably on the shoulder and heading off to shower or threateningly hug someone else. Weird.

Brent turns back to his stall and continues getting his gear off. Duncan’s sitting next to him, finishing some specially concocted protein shake thing, in his shorts and not a lot else. It’s just the two of them now, everyone else eager to clean off and get to the postgame meal. Brent focuses un-taping his shin pads, and not on Duncan and his midseason shirtless muscular-ness. He specifically doesn’t focus on the bruise on Duncan’s bare arm, probably from that hit the other night against Phoenix. It’s red-purple and tender looking against the smooth solidness of Duncan’s deltoid and Brent doesn’t think about running his hand over that curve of muscle at all.

“What was that?” Duncan says, nodding his head at the door to the more-private locker room that abuts the showers, where Sharpy disappeared to. He sounds almost annoyed. Brent thinks all those nutrients in his shake must not have kicked in yet. They got a good two points and Duncan played like his usual excellent self, so there’s really nothing to be moody about. His brain just probably needs more sugar after those twenty-nine minutes of ice time.

“No idea.” Brent says. “I don’t pretend to understand how his messed-up brain works.”

“You’re assuming he has one.” Duncan grumbles.

“Right,” Brent says, a smile stealing over his face at Duncan’s saltiness. It’s just kind of cute. “My mistake.”

“Yeah,” Duncan says, getting up. He pats Brent on the shoulder too, warmly and pretty solid. “Nice goal,” he says, and smiles at Brent, and doesn’t move his hand away for a long moment.

“Thanks.” Brent says, suddenly quiet. Duncan pats his shoulder again, quick, before turning and heading to the showers.

 Brent feels a little warm, but it’s probably just leftover exertion from the game.

  
  


_4_.

Coming home after a road trip is always great. Duncan likes his own house, his own dog, his own bed. 

He also likes dinner invitations to the Sharps’. Generally speaking. It’s not unusual for it just to be him and Brent invited, but Sharpy has his plotting face on. Duncan doesn't trust this in the least.

Brent is in the kitchen with Abby, because they’ve always gotten along well, and Brent likes to occasionally steal simpler recipes off her. Duncan is on the couch, watching some god-awful thing Sharpy picked because he’s a terrible host and Duncan’s imprisoned by all 50 pounds of Shooter lying on his lap, extremely asleep.

“So have you talked to Brent yet?” Sharpy asks, apropos of nothing, interrupting Duncan’s happy silence.

“Like two minutes ago?” Duncan says, because Brent really hasn’t been in the kitchen that long.

Sharpy gives him a look, like he thinks Duncan’s being difficult. Which is so unfair because Duncan’s only difficult about hockey and Sharpy is like, an inherently difficult person.

“Shooter!” Sharpy says, loud and definitely not to Duncan. He claps his hands once, and Shooter’s long, magnificent ears perk a little, reluctantly. “Good boy!” Sharpy says. “C’mere.” He pats the couch next to him, thoroughly ignoring Duncan.

“He’s sleeping.” Duncan says, because of course Sharpy can’t leave well enough alone, even with his dog.

“He can sleep over here.” Sharpy says, as Shooter rouses himself and meanders slowly over to Sharpy, not giving Duncan a second thought. Sharpy praises him and rubs his ears. Shooter promptly returns to his slumber, unbothered.

“Was that necessary?” Duncan wants to know. He’s genuinely curious what possible motivation Sharpy might have for this dog migration and general assholery.

“Absolutely,” Sharpy says, casually stroking the dog’s side. “Shooter only likes people who are emotionally honest with themselves. And he hates secrets and liars. And people who pretend they don’t know what you’re talking about when they actually do.”

“What’s he doing with you then?” Duncan mutters, slumping a little lower into the couch.

“I’ll ignore that.” Sharpy says, cheerfully. “So, have you talked to Seabs yet?”

“I talked to your mom.” Duncan mutters again, because he misses his Bassett lapweight. And because Sharpy doesn’t have to be such a _jerk_ about this.

“Nice,” Sharpy says, tone still casual. “Did she ask if you’ve talked to Seabs yet?”

Duncan sighs. “What am I supposed to say to him? That he’s my best friend and I like spending time with him and shit? He knows that already.”

“It’s not a bad start,” Sharpy says. “You know how Seabs is, he gets all awkward about this stuff. He’s not going to say anything unless you do.”

“And you’d know that how?” Duncan knows he says it with too much heat, knows he’s kind of failing at getting out of this conversation with minimal damage.

Sharpy smiles, pleased as always to get a reaction. “Wow, you’re so jealous. That’s great.” His smile gets bigger, and Duncan waits for whatever’s going to come out of his stupid mouth next. He’s not jealous. Sharpy’s married and he can have inappropriately long, half-clothed hugs with whoever the fuck he wants. That’s none of Duncan’s business. 

“Are you going to be this jealous when he finally gets it together and meets someone? Like, for real?” Sharpy asks.

Duncan doesn’t have anything to say to that.

_Probably_ , he thinks to himself. Which is probably an understatement.

He’s taken out of this super-fun brain time by Sharpy placing a still sleeping, dead-to-the-world Shooter back on Duncan’s lap.

“I told you,” Sharpy says, “Shooter likes people who are emotionally honest with themselves.”

“You owe me a really good dinner.” Duncan mumbles, his hands finding Shooter’s fur.

Sharpy nods. “I should check on that,” he says, and leaves Duncan to his lapdog-assisted thoughts.

  
  


_5_.

Dinner is good, much like Brent expected. Abby’s a great cook and she always shares tips with him in the kitchen. And wine.

The table conversation is less good. Sharpy’s his usual chatty self and Abby fills them all in on general Chicago news they missed while on the road. But Duncan is quiet. Not like, aggressively so, but enough to be odd. Duncan likes going out for dinner, is always trying to take Brent to new restaurants and old favourites. The Sharps’ definitely counts as an old favourite. At least, it usually does.

Duncan’s wearing a soft looking thermal shirt that isn’t black. Brent thinks, not for the first time, that he broods kind of pretty. And that he really should wear more colour. Brent’s not asking for anything crazy okay. Just maybe some non-blackish greys, blues, greens.

He’s distracted from his perusal of Duncan’s collarbones across the table by the thought that maybe admiring his d-partner’s features is not the smartest choice of activity when sitting next to Patrick Sharp, of all people. He focuses on what Abby’s saying instead, about a raccoon that broke into a local coffee shop and availed himself of several breakfast sandwiches. Brent loves it here. Chicago: gutsy raccoons and redheads in thermal long-sleeved T-shirts. It’s his kind of town.

Dessert is good too. Brent’s watching Duncan get up to help clear the table when he realizes he should help as well. He’s just picked up a plate when Abby says, “Oh, I think Patrick and I can handle the dishes. Shooter could use a walk though.”

“Great idea, honey,” Sharpy says, forcibly taking the plate out of Brent’s hand and moving to do the same to Duncan. “You guys know where his leash is, right? Make sure you take a bag from the closet too.”

Sharpy more or less shoves him and Duncan out the door with a moderately willing dog as soon as they have their coats on.

“So,” Brent says, as they stand on the porch, staring at each other. “This is weird.”

“You’re weird,” Duncan says, but he’s smiling and says it all soft and Brent doesn’t know what to think. 

Someone, probably Abby, thinks to turn on the porch light for them. Shooter seems to realize he’s outside, now that the Sharp’s driveway is illuminated, and shows signs of life by slowly making his way towards the sidewalk. Duncan follows the pull of the leash and Brent falls into step with him, because apparently Sharpy’s entitled enough to successfully make other people walk his dog. As if the Sharps don’t have a perfectly good, fenced in, dog-friendly backyard.

It’s a crisp night, but not too chilly for January, which is good because Shooter’s not a fast walker. It’s more of a stroll than a real walk. The moon is out too, reflecting off the snow on people’s lawns, making the streetlights almost unnecessary. Lots of houses still have holiday lights up, and they argue over their favourites as they make their way around the block.

“This takes me back to when we were rookies.” Brent says, a little hushed because the street’s so quiet and it doesn’t feel right to break it. “You know, when we didn’t know the city yet and you got us so lost all the time and we had to walk forever to get where we actually wanted to go.”

“You liked it,” Duncan says, flippantly, turning to smile at Brent again in that way that kind of makes him feel all glowy and junk.

“Yeah,” Brent says, honest and lower than he meant for it to come out. They’re walking close on the narrow-ish sidewalk, almost brushing shoulders, and there really is no one else around. Sharpy’s not that good, is he? No, people must just still be eating dinner or putting their kids to bed or whatever. They’ve barely been around the block, only strolling, but Brent’s a little hot already. Walking Sharpy’s dog shouldn’t feel so intimate, but it does. They’re almost back to the Sharps’ already and Brent doesn’t want to be yet. He wants to know why Duncan’s been doing a terrible job of hiding his moodiness all evening and why he still smiles at Brent like that anyways.

“Let’s go in the back,” Brent says, nodding at the Sharps’ backyard gate, across their driveway from the front door. “Can try and sneak up on them.”

“Sure,” Duncan says, guiding Shooter, who’s only too happy to go into his perfectly nice, fenced-in, dog-friendly backyard.

Brent shuts the gate behind them, making sure it’s latched securely because the Hawks aren’t that popular ( _yet_ , he hopes), but safe is better than sorry. The world really doesn’t need creepy stalker photos of Sharpy in the wild.

He turns around to see Duncan staring at him again, and it’d be spooky if he didn’t know him so well. And if he didn’t still have Shooter’s bright yellow leash wrapped around his wrist.

“What?” Brent says, because Duncan’s kind of blocking him in against the fence and won’t stop looking at him, like he’s been doing all night.

“You’re my best friend and I like spending time with you and shit.” Duncan says, too quickly. “And you look really nice tonight.”

Brent pauses for a second, to make sure he heard that correctly. He’s pretty sure he did, and Duncan’s still standing so close to him, blocking his view of Sharpy’s stupid expensive barbeque.

It’s so easy to move forward that little bit and kiss him.

  
  


_+1._

Sharpy’s backyard is definitely not where Duncan imagined kissing Brent for the first time. Which seems silly now, because Brent is kissing him like he’s been thinking about it for ages, and he goes so easily when Duncan presses him back against Sharpy’s fence. His hands are warm on Duncan’s waist, through his jacket. The touch makes Duncan want to kiss him until the sun comes up.

Brent’s not wearing a scarf, so Duncan can’t not kiss his neck some, just as a breather before kissing him on the mouth again. He likes the way Brent’s hands get a little firmer on his waist. Likes how Brent kisses him back eagerly, calming once he realizes Duncan has every intention to kiss him better than he’s ever been kissed in his life. 

Duncan guesses you can’t technically “win” at kissing someone, but he’s going to win at kissing Brent. It’s a good goal. He’s willing to work at it and he’s sure it’s going to be very rewarding.

Duncan’s plans are interrupted by a very determined throat-clearing. Brent pulls away, not to a respectable distance or anything, but still too far by Duncan’s standards. He follows Brent’s gaze to the porch, where Sharpy is standing at the open French doors. Shooter is at his feet, his bright yellow leash still trailing on the ground. Right. Duncan’s hands have both been in Brent’s hair for he can’t remember how long now and none of his hands are holding Shooter’s leash anymore. Clearly.

“You guys have been going at it for, hmmm, eight minutes?” Sharpy says, checking his watch, which is both rude and unnecessarily dramatic. ”If you get to ten, I will turn the hose on you.”

Duncan is about to retort something deeply embarrassing about how no one’s going to tell him not to kiss Brent all he wants to, but is saved from this very mockable fate by Brent laughing softly. Duncan’s close enough to him that he feels the light rumble of it. It’s so pleasant, he’s utterly distracted from baiting Sharpy.

“It’s January, like your hose is even hooked up.” Brent says to Sharpy, “If it is, it’s definitely frozen.”

Duncan could kiss him. He will, too. Very shortly. As soon as Sharpy fucks off and leaves them in peace.

“Whatever.” Sharpy says, and makes a show of shutting the door firmly and locking it. He really is a terrible host.

Duncan rolls his eyes, and looks back to Brent, who’s much more interesting than Sharpy anyways. He looks thoroughly kissed, his cheeks a little pink and his hair going every which way. Duncan wonders what Brent’s going to look like when he’s had a chance to touch him properly, if he’s this disheveled after just a bit of kissing. It’s a good, tempting thought, and Duncan leans in to kiss him again, but Brent stops him short.

“I hate to disappoint you,” he says, running his hand down Duncan’s chest, over his jacket that he really doesn’t want to be wearing anymore. “But I do think we’ll have a better time somewhere not outside.”

Brent kisses him again, slow and deeper than before. It’s over much, much too quickly for Duncan’s liking. Brent’s right. Somewhere inside would have many benefits. When they’re inside and Brent kisses him like that, Duncan will be able to—well.

He’ll be able to do a lot of things.

“You should take me home.” Brent says, right in his ear, like Duncan isn’t thinking about it already. “And you better be quick about it.”

“Or what?” Duncan teases him, because Brent wants him to take him home and this is a perfect night he’ll remember forever. “You’ll kiss me some more? That’s not a very good threat.”

“Or else Sharpy might find that high-powered water gun I gave him for Christmas last year. And then I’ll have to fight him and Abby will yell at both of us and I won’t get to kiss you again for like an hour.”

Duncan considers this carefully, and steps back so Brent can actually step away from the fence.

“So I better take you home now then.” Duncan says, reaching for the latch on the gate with one hand and catching Brent’s fingers with the other.

“Yes,” Brent says, and lets Duncan pull him towards the driveway and his car.

They leave the gate open this time. Because fuck Sharpy.


End file.
